


It Is not Heaven, It Is Home

by bravinto



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Sort of? - Freeform, inner monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravinto/pseuds/bravinto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding the love of your life is awfully anticlimactic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Is not Heaven, It Is Home

Finding the love of your life is awfully anticlimactic. It’s not a roaring celebration of your favourite sports team winning the championship; it’s not a sweetly awkward encounter in a coffee shop around the corner; it’s not a passionate summer romance in Baden-Baden or Nizza or San Francisco. There are no fireworks, no runaways, and no life and death situation – well, okay, there is a life and death situation going on around you; but it’s really old news and you are used to it like you get used to a dull toothache. Nah, there is nothing out of order, it’s just a breakfast time in the crowded mess hall when you look across the table and see him scowl at a bowl of lumpy porridge and in a moment of icy clarity that don’t happen too often – usually, when you are very high, or when you wake up with a jolt at four in the morning, or when you look through the data you’ve gathered, and you know that it _fits_ ; - you see him and you know that this is it, this is the love of your life, your goddamn grouchy _t’hy’la_ ; and no lightning rips the skies, and no thunderbolt falls. 

There were clues, sure, now that you think of it. Like, when you first saw him – “It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Doctor Geiszler”, - the fucker was not pleased at all, you could tell as much; but all you could think of – man, the dude must be in pain. And when later you eventually hacked his dossier and found out what he had – duh, nasty thing; - but he was not in pain, and you were so glad, you were almost gloating. Just because it gave you _carte blanche_ to drive him up the wall like he did to you, you managed to convince yourself, and certainly not because you cared, what.

And yeah, you thought of sex while staring at the cowlick on the back of his head, first as a sheer hatefuck, and then… let’s face it, the man is hot, and even cute, once you get past the initial shock of those sharp cheekbones and that huge froggy mouth (seriously, if Gottlieb Sr. wasn’t such an asshole, you’d love to meet the parents, just to see what sorts of genes could produce such a face!). So the time passed, and you began to wonder how those fish lips would feel against yours, and whether blush would make his cheeks look warmer. You only gotta make him blush, and this is totes within the scope of possibility: he can smile and laugh, not just scowl, if he wants to. Challenge accepted.

You might have actually made out with him a couple of times, but that doesn’t mean much, it isn’t really a clue. But dancing is. Dancing sure is. That day when your last colleague left the lab for good, and it was only the two of you, even though you were hardly paid anymore, it was time to uncork the special reserve. There were two doctors getting drunk in the damp, cold laboratory, then, and you can’t quite remember, but suddenly music was playing from someone’s laptop (Yves Montand, why? _WHY???_ ), and Hermann stood before you with his arm outstretched. It was hard to tell, who led, you were holding the most weight, he was maneuvering you around the room, avoiding tanks and sharp edges. It was all surreally good and dreamy, his suit wooly and scratchy against your arm; you swirled for what felt like hours and crossed the dividing line many times and ended up in very sweet, very drunk and somewhat awkward hugs. There is a vague memory of giving each other slurred promises, maybe, but it is unconfirmed, because one does not simply discuss drunken soppiness with doctor Gottlieb. All in all, yes, dancing is a definite clue.

And maybe those times when you were out, engaging in casual one night stands, or perhaps hoping to take some of them further; the sex was good, those people were good, too, occasionally, – yet you caught yourself wishing to be somewhere else. You’d always thought you were a cuddler, but you didn’t really want to cuddle, lately. You watched bleak street lights on the ceiling and all you wanted was to take a shower, get dressed and go on with your business, but it was usually three in the morning, so going anywhere was out of the question. Thus you just turned your back and tried to sleep, feeling like a huge asshole. The mere fact of getting laid could make you happy for weeks, once upon a time. Then you actually wanted to enjoy the sex. Then you wanted an amiable person in bed with you. And now even that was not enough. You realized you were tired of sleeping with people you didn’t love. “Or are you just getting old, Doctor Geiszler?” a gottliebish voice sneered in the back of your head as you kissed your date goodbye in the morning, whatever, maybe you still could be friendly or have a drink some time. Screw it.

Well, maybe that's it, the thing which has opened your eyes just now. Friendship. That skinny, grumpy, passionate, brilliant dork isn’t just a sexy beast with the stupidest haircut and inappropriate, fuckable, _rude_ lips; but somehow he’s also your best friend in the world, and you feel that you are kinda stuck together for the time being, and you don’t really mind. This whole love thing is not half as exciting as it appears in fiction, not the reason to get all worked up, and you might as well tell him, while you are still at it, before you chicken out, because you might, duh, nevermind – 

“Eh, Herms”, you say conversationally, leaning across the table, and here it is, the sour face, predictable, boring, perfect, it is not heaven, it is home, “you are the love of my life and I think we totally belong together, dude, I hope you don’t mind. Pass the cookies”.

**Author's Note:**

> t'hy'la is a Star Trek reference; this word means friend/brother/lover


End file.
